


Those Who Wait

by fawatson



Category: The Charioteer - Mary Renault
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 12:37:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2622038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucy comes to terms with Laurie enlisting in the BEF.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Who Wait

**Author's Note:**

> **Originally posted to:** maryrenaultfics at LiveJournal on 11/11/2014 for Remembrance Day (100 years since the start of WWI and 75 years since the start of WWII)  
>  **Mentioned:** Aunt Olive  
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit by them.  
>  **Author’s Notes:**  
>  (1) I started this story in response to writing challenges and prompts for the Brigit’s Flame LiveJournal community in August 2014: Bone (week one; with the secondary prompt of Ezekiel 37:5), Muscle (week two), Skin (week three; with the secondary prompt a photo of a woman looking at her reflection), Blood (week four), and posted pieces of the story on my personal LJ throughout August 2014. As I revised to join all the pieces together, the Brigit’s Flame November 2014 (week 2) prompt, “Denial” inspired one of the new sections designed to join together two somewhat disjointed parts into a cohesive ‘whole’.  
> (2) This story is also a belated response to maryrenaultfics' Autumn 2014 prompt about the start of WWII.  
> (3) The Pax rose is an old breed that was developed just after WWI.  
> (4) The Milton Mr Straike quotes from is _On His Blindness_ , the full text to which can be found here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/On_His_Blindness. The final line is: “They also serve who only stand and wait" which also has provided the title for this story.  
> (5) Many thanks to greerwatson (my sister) and keppiehed (from Brigit's Flame) for their editing suggestions.

Those Who Wait 

As the day wore on, the morning drizzle cleared and the sun broke through cloud. Lucy hummed as she put fresh linens on Laurie’s bed. He was coming home at last! At first he’d said he would arrive by the midday train, but he’d rung yesterday to explain he was catching a lift with Mr Moss and wouldn’t arrive before tea time. Sadly that meant he would miss Olive, though Lucy was conscious that was probably more a sadness for Olive than Laurie. Not that he didn’t love her - he had all the proper family regard for her as would only be expected. But no one would expect a young man in his twenties to look forward to seeing a maiden aunt in quite the same way as she would look forward to seeing him. Olive had timed her visit to coincide with Laurie’s return; but when he’d rung to say he was extending his stay with friends a few more days, and then rung again about the change in travel arrangements, it had meant their paths would not cross even for the briefest of visits. Though the change did have one silver lining: sleeping arrangements would be considerably simpler. (Putting Olive up when Laurie was around always meant the house was overcrowded.) Lucy placed two clean towels on Laurie’s bed, taking the ones used by Olive with her as she made her way to the kitchen. Lucy had been putting the extra time before Laurie’s arrival to good use, making sure the house had those extra touches that made it welcoming; but what had, when she woke in the morning, seemed such a long time, had gradually been whittled away, and she still had the cake to make. Laurie did like a nice Victoria sponge. 

Lucy pushed Gyp outside before getting out the ingredients. The last thing she needed was a dog begging while she cooked. The sun beckoned through the kitchen window as she measured flour, butter and sugar. Around the aster blooms a bee buzzed its message to her. As soon as she pushed the cake tin in the oven, she grabbed the secateurs and slipped on her gardening shoes. There should be time for a little dead-heading. In the end, she completely lost track of the hour and it was forty-five minutes later when she rushed back in through the back door, hastily dropping a bucket of cut flowers before grabbing the teacloth from its hook. She opened the oven door, and reached in for the cake tin. The top looked far too dark but fortunately it wasn’t burned. Cake rescued, Lucy fished in the back of a cupboard for a rack and turned it out to cool. 

A large crystal vase that had been a wedding present years ago from a distant relative and another smaller vase (ordinary pottery this time) were pulled from their hiding places at the back of one shelf in the pantry. Lucy took great care as she cut the ends from flower stems with a sharp knife (not scissors – no, never scissors which could crush them), before arranging them carefully. The tall mauve Michaelmas daisies were joined by pale pink phlox in the bigger vase and put on the mantel in the sitting room. It was a formal room with a window overlooked by an elder tree, which meant it was rather dark, even on a sunny day. The flowers would help to brighten it. 

The little bouquet she carried up to Laurie’s bedroom. His window faced west which meant it caught the afternoon sun. In spring the lilac bush bloomed just below his window. Now he had a good view of the roses. She had added a yellow rosebud to his vase, along with a few Shasta daisies, and the last yellow poppy. At the door on her way out, Lucy paused to cast her eye over the room. It looked cheery and inviting.

Downstairs once more, she carefully sliced through the middle of the sponge, before placing the bottom half on a cake plate. A dollop of raspberry jam was spooned over the base. It took time and effort to whip the cream, even though she had those marvellous rotary beaters dear Olive had given her last Christmas; but at last it was stiff and she spread it over the base and added the top half of cake to the sandwich. A thin powdering of sugar completed the special welcome home cake. Lucy pushed it well to the back of the counter, out of harm’s way. Next, bread was sliced thinly, and salmon and shrimp paste applied to make sandwiches. A damp teacloth was wrapped round the plate of sandwiches to keep them from drying out.

It was almost four o’clock when Lucy went upstairs to freshen her appearance. She felt a little flushed from rushing round and splashed some water on her face and neck. It only took a moment to slip into her second best tweed skirt, change her blouse, and put a comb through her hair. She made it to the top of the stairs just in time to see Laurie come through the front door. 

“Mum! I’m home!” he called. “No, down boy!” He pushed at the excited dog, who had come in from the garden when he opened the door, and now was bouncing round him. “Mum, are you home?” Laurie had dropped his duffel and now was bent over Gyp, patting him. 

Lucy hesitated on the landing, one white knuckled hand clutching the handrail, while the other was pressed against her throat. She could feel the pulse in her neck beating with shock. Laurie was in uniform. It took her several moments before she was able to compose herself and go down to greet him. 

The next morning she felt like an automaton as she rose, dressed, and made her way downstairs. Laurie was out in the garden brushing his dog. He always groomed Gyp the morning after he returned, stripping out the excess hair that had built up in the wire coat while he was away studying. Almost, Lucy could think everything was the same as normal. She would make breakfast and Laurie would take Gyp for a long walk, collecting his friend Simon on the way. Except of course it wasn’t the same. He might not be wearing his uniform today, but nothing could erase yesterday’s image of him in khaki. 

Lucy turned away from the back window and concentrated hard on slicing mushrooms and grilling sausages and bacon. Thank heavens Laurie preferred scrambled egg; she didn’t think she could flip an egg without breaking it today. As it was, a lapse in concentration led to a small burn on her inner wrist from splashed fat as she served. Over breakfast, Laurie assured her his studies at Oxford were only interrupted; he planned to return for his final year once war was over. She only hoped he would be able to. 

As expected, as soon as he had finished helping with the washing up, Laurie announced his intention to visit Simon. She watched as he changed the slippers he wore round the house for stout boots, filled a bottle with water, and rooted in the garden shed for the walking stick and Gyp’s lead. She doubted she would see him before teatime. Wistfully, her eyes followed his jaunty figure as he walked down the high street and on out of sight, before bracing herself through routine: it was her turn to decorate the church. 

She had taken note yesterday of which flowers would be suitable; so it wasn’t long before she, too, walked down the high street. In her case, however, she turned off at the ornate Victorian gate leading to the church. Once inside, the limp flowers of last week were gathered and taken to the compost heap in the southeast corner by the hedge. Then she rinsed the vases and filled them with fresh water. It would be a much nicer display _this_ week: unlike some in the village _her_ garden had been carefully planned to provide a nice show of flowers year round, not just in the spring. Plus, she knew her touch far defter than Mrs Purdy’s (though of course it wouldn’t do to say so publicly). 

Flowers finished, Lucy lingered. She had been a member of this church for many years – all her life, unless one counted the time, long ago, when she had lived in London with Michael. She didn’t though. That brief ill-fated marriage had relocated her temporarily; but this village had always remained her real home. She patted the intricately carved lid of the font fondly, remembering her joy when Laurie was christened. A tear trickled down her face and she sank into the last pew, slipping automatically to her knees to pray. 

Lucy had completely lost track of the time by the time she rose. Her back ached and she could feel the bones in her neck crackle slightly as she tried to work out the kinks. God only knew how long she had knelt there, trying fruitlessly to find some sense of solace. The chime of the clock in the church tower had finally roused her to the realisation the light had moved round. The East window had been brightly illuminated when she entered, but now the rays piercing the dim of the church came more from the south. It must be well past luncheon by now. 

Always when she came to church she visited the plaque in the south aisle commemorating those young men who had fallen in the last war; by habit now Lucy made her way there, and stood few seconds reading the names she knew all too well. The fingers of her right hand lightly traced the name of her brother. They had never recovered his body from the battlefield; she had no memory of him dead - only the image in her mind's eye of how confident and determined he had looked the day he returned wearing the King’s uniform, just as Laurie had looked today. Neither brother nor son ever dreamed of shirking what they saw as their duty. What had come of Raymond’s sacrifice, though: killed in the war to end all wars, so she could now give her son to another. 

Automatically, as she turned to leave, Lucy bent to pick up a bible that had fallen from the shelf of a pew. The book had opened to Ezekiel; she had never been very fond of the Old Testament, and within it, this chapter was certainly no favourite. One passage stood out though: 

_And I will lay sinews upon you, and will bring up flesh upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and ye shall live; and ye shall know that I am the LORD._

There was an ironic twist to Lucy’s mouth. _She_ had given birth to Laurie; _she_ had raised him with precious little help from his layabout father. Yet now in some now arbitrary twist of destiny _God_ decided her son belonged to _him_ , and disposed of him without any consultation with the mother who had loved and nurtured and _sacrificed_. A little voice deep inside Lucy whispered ‘blasphemy’. She refused to heed it. ‘It’s a just war, this time,’ consoled another voice. ‘Hitler must be stopped.’ She ignored that too. They could stop Hitler without her son; she knew they could. He was just one man of thousands to the army; he was the _only child_ to her. He was ....

He was no child. Could she want him to be less than he was? She had raised him to do his duty. She should be proud. Lucy straightened her back and raised her chin as she walked resolutely down the aisle toward the church door. She must ask the vicar if he was planning a farewell service for the young men from the village who had joined up. 

Lucy broached the idea with her son that evening. 

“I don’t want a big _fuss_ made, Mum. It is a war, after all, not something to celebrate,” Laurie explained. 

“But a _church_ service, Laurie,” Lucy protested. “Surely you want God’s blessing before you go off to fight.”

Put that way Laurie could hardly say no, though Lucy could tell he wasn’t very enthusiastic. Over the next few days, however, as she made charitable visits around the district, she sounded people out, quietly gaining their support for the project. Hers was not the only family with a child caught up in patriotic fervour, so it was not that difficult. 

For once Lucy found herself relieved Laurie wasn’t at home. He’d come back from his ramble with Gyp to tell her he’d arranged to spend a few days camping with his friend Simon and just two days later had left. She needed the time to adjust her thinking without needing to put on a brave face. To him, home was a constant and she was always there to support him. Not that she didn’t _want_ to support him (After all why else would she be drumming up support for the farewell service.) But whatever her outward motions, all neat and correct, inwardly she could not help having misgivings. The house mirrored her facade of normality: the garden might be tidy and well-trimmed; but, inside the front door, her home was at sixes and sevens.

Yesterday had been washday; and years of routine – plus the arrival of Mrs Timmings – had bolstered Lucy through the hard work of mangling. But the mantel over the fireplace hadn’t been dusted; and the bumper crop of Victoria plums picked last Friday still had not been made into jam. Instead, the garden had been weeded with great diligence; Lucy found gardening very soothing.

Today was the final meeting of the Women’s Institute with the vicar about the service and if she did not get a move on, she would be late. Where _had_ she put her hat? She couldn’t go to the vicarage without a _hat!_ Its mislaying brought home to Lucy how much her own personal routines had been disrupted. Normally, it was on the stand by the front door. Now, she must try to remember where she had been the last time she wore it. Retrace her steps: that was what she had been told when she got into a tizzy about misplacing things as a child. Calm down and remember where she had been and what she had been doing...except, she did not wear a hat _inside_ the house. She always took it off as soon as she came in. And it wasn’t the kind of hat she wore in the garden. (She peeked quickly: yes, her straw gardening hat was by the back door, ready for her to put on when she went out to weed the flower beds.) She must find it. Shabby as the little black hat might be, it was her only good hat; she couldn’t wear the straw to this meeting. 

She had last worn it on Saturday when she went to the church to arrange the flowers She had come in and...Lucy fairly flew upstairs. There it was: on the hook behind her bedroom door! She sat at the bureau in her room to put it on, tilting it just so. The reflection that looked back at her showed a woman past her prime. Her skin was good; she had a strict nightly routine with cold cream that kept it supple. And no gray hair: that was the distinct advantage of being a redhead. But her lips had thinned over the years. Lucy carefully applied her red lipstick to make them look fuller. Her eyes...Lucy’s fingertips traced the black smudges underneath before she fumbled in the back of the bureau drawer for little jar of concealer. She hadn’t used it in years – not since those dreadful visits to the solicitor over the divorce. Her hands trembled slightly as she applied it sparingly to the delicate skin beneath her eyes; it wouldn’t do to smear too much on and look painted. One final touch of a little shadow was applied to the eyelids (it brought out the blue of her eyes) and she was done. Automatically, she tidied away the pots of makeup while she inspected her face in the mirror. It would do. She looked respectable; she looked calm. She looked honourable and decent. For good luck, she touched the Pax rosebud tucked into the lapel of her jacket, then picked up her handbag and made her way downstairs and out the front door. 

She was the last to reach the vicarage and they had started without her. Mrs Timmings, who ‘did’ for the vicar as well as Lucy, had made a pot which sat in front of Mrs Purdy. Lucy smiled at all as she sat on the one seat remaining – a stool by the piano – and politely accepted a cup of tea. Her eyebrows rose slightly at the first sip: it was Earl Grey, _not_ a brew she associated with a man’s household (and the vicar was a widower). The shortbread was bought, not homemade, which was only to be expected. And clean though the parlour was (no one could expect any less when Mr Straike employed Mrs Timmings to come twice a week), it lacked the homely touches of a woman’s hand. Lucy remembered when Mr Rawlinson had had the parish; _his_ wife had taken prizes for her baking and had prided herself on her crocheted doilies and the bouquets of hand-made silk flowers she placed in every room. In comparison the vicarage parlour now looked stark.

Having been the driving force behind getting agreement for the service, Lucy was now content to take a back seat when it came to planning the details. She let the discussion flow round her, contributing remarkably little beyond endorsing Mr Straike’s suggestions about music. She rather thought he noticed her support. Mr Straike reserved to himself the choice of readings; even old Mrs Ramsey, renowned for her strong opinions (she had been known to tell the previous minister just what she thought of his sermon each week), deferred to his judgment over this. 

As the meeting neared its conclusion, Lucy volunteered to stay behind and wash the teacups. Mr Straike carried the heavy tray through the dingy passage to the kitchen at the back of the house. He offered to wash but Lucy suggested he dry instead. 

“After all, you know the right places for everything.” 

In end, Mrs Timmings insisted on washing, while Lucy helped Mr Straike put the tea service away. The vicar was a bit of an unknown quantity within village life, largely because he had only been appointed to the parish a few weeks ago. While drying the teacups, Lucy remarked on their pretty floral pattern. While placing them on the hooks at the back of the second shelf (too far for Lucy to reach), _he_ explained the service had been a wedding present from his sister when he and his dear late wife married, and also let it be known he had sought transfer from his previous parish after she died. He’d wanted to make a new start, he said, away from old memories. 

Despite her feelings about Laurie’s decision, Lucy couldn’t help but feel a little flutter of excitement. This was, after all, a sleepy village where more people left than arrived. She looked up at the vicar through her lashes. He was definitely taller than her, though not too tall; she liked that. He asked about Laurie’s decision to join up, and when she allowed a little of her distress to slip into her voice, made it clear he recognised her anxiety (only natural to a mother, he said). He countered with a short biblical quotation, which soothed. In short, he said all the right things, and she _thought_ his eyes sparkled appreciatively as he helped her put on her cardigan and offered a mirror so she could check her hat was straight before she left. Of course, he offered Mrs Timmings the same courtesies, too. But, clearly Mrs Timmings noticed the difference. She tactfully left just that little bit sooner than Lucy, with a backward glance of what must surely be approval. 

The next day Lucy tackled those plums, so that it was to a pantry shelf of full Mason jars that Laurie returned the next day. Not that he noticed, but he did enjoy the toad-in-the-hole followed by baked apple with custard that evening. The following day Mrs Timmings arrived and the house filled with the smell of bread baking. Laurie spent the morning in the kitchen making jam tarts with ‘Timmie’. (She hadn’t heard that name from him since he was very small.) His help in the garden shifting plants that had outgrown their places was very welcome in the afternoon. Lucy guessed next year she’d have to hire a jobbing gardener for the heavy work. 

After their evening meal, they enjoyed a concert on the radio. Laurie was oblivious to how often she left a page unturned to look at him. He was sitting where he always sat, in a place where the light from the sitting room fire caught the reddish glints in his hair. She remembered his golden blond curls as a newborn baby that soon darkened to brownish red, and faded by the time he was a teenager into the rich brown she now saw. Until now, that colouring, darker than hers, had seemed his only legacy from his father. Except now, Laurie was off to war, as both Michael and Raymond had gone in the last war. Pray God he came back. Grown man he might be, but Lucy still saw the child in him – even more so now, as he sat re-reading an old Henty she remembered buying for him in a second-hand bookshop when he was nine. They had only a few more days together before he left: a few more days spent like this one, in everyday pursuits, talking about everyday things, while avoiding discussion of the deeper issues that troubled them. A few days during which both mother and son could pretend everything would stay the same. Lucy found herself grateful for that unspoken pact between them. 

In the end, it was a very satisfactory send-off. Laurie was not the only young man from the village who had volunteered. His old school chum, Simon, was also going, though he was in the Royal Engineers, so they were not going together. Strictly speaking, Mrs Timmings’ grandson, Alfred, was not from the village. Her daughter had gone to live in Leeds when she had married; but Alfred visited his grandmother frequently and his parents were not regular members of any church in Leeds. It was a fact much lamented by Mrs Timmings, who was a staunch supporter of the local Women’s Institute and very active in the parish, so it had been agreed he should be included in the village service. For some peculiar reason no one could quite fathom, he’d signed on with the navy. Given the village was inland and Leeds also had no port, quite why he had been attracted to seafaring life, no one could fathom. But he had and he was going and that was that. Babs Whitely had even less connection to the village than Alfred, as she was the daughter of a cousin of the vicar. But she had enlisted as a WREN, so she was included too. Lucy remembered joining the VAD in the last war; she supposed this was sort of the modern equivalent. And the Green brothers were going; the village would be that much quieter once they had gone. (Even war had a silver lining.) 

The six who had volunteered to serve King and country sat in the front pew, wearing dress uniforms, which, she allowed, looked very smart. For once, even the Green boys looked neat and tidy. Family sat in the next two pews, just behind those in whose honour this service was being held. It was the first time Lucy had sat immediately beside Mr Green. He smelled. Clearly he had come in straight from working the fields without even a wash (let alone a change of clothes). Lucy prided herself that not by even so much as a flicker of her eyes had she shown her distaste when he slid into pew. She was aware, however, of how close she sat to the end of the pew on her left, leaving a good two inches to her right. Well, she wouldn’t want the dirt from his trousers to rub onto her pretty blue linen suit. 

The vicar had preached a very nice sermon. As he quoted that famous last line from Milton’s poem, he gestured toward everyone in the family pew, but nonetheless Lucy rather thought his eyes lingered on her. Far from ‘waiting’ however, the quotation signalled the sermon’s end and Lucy, along with the rest of the congregation, rose for the final hymn. She remembered the debate amongst the organising committee about which to select, with some favouring ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. It had been included in the service, of course; but in the end, to her satisfaction, ‘Jerusalem’ had been selected for the recessional. Mrs Ramsey had suggested ‘Land of Hope and Glory,’ but the vicar had pointed out that Elgar had written a march, not a hymn; patriotic though he might be, he really could not countenance it within the service. For form’s sake, Lucy’s hymnal was open to the correct page, but she knew the words by heart. She added her thin soprano to the swell of the congregation as they belted out the song. Surprisingly, Mr Green sang out loudly in a strong, true, deep basso; he, too, did not need any reminder about the words. Her heart warmed to him. After all, he was also sending a child into danger – two children in fact. And like her, they were his only sons. 

As usual, the vicar stood by the church door, greeting his congregation as they exited, making a point of saying a few special words to each parent sending a child off to war, before he shook the hand of each in uniform. Laurie, like all the young people, was surrounded by neighbours wishing him well. Requisite well-wishing done, Lucy stood back and watched. Were people just that bit more effusive to Simon? Well it was to be expected, she supposed. Unlike Laurie he had just gone to Leeds Grammar for his schooling and come home every weekend. He didn’t seem to appreciate his popularity though; in fact Simon seemed more interested in Babs (or was it she who was interested in him?) than in exchanging polite words with villagers, and fairly soon they left in tandem. The crowd closed in on Laurie then, but it was not long before he looked around, and catching sight of her, extricated himself from old friends and joined her. There had been talk of some kind of after-service gathering at the village hall – tea and cakes, perhaps. Lucy had been all in favour of that. But the newly enlisted had to report to their respective bases; and if they did not leave by the 1:00 o’clock train (the only one to stop, once daily, at the tiny halt that serviced the village) they would be late. 

Laurie offered his mother a supportive arm. They walked back to the cottage, discussing how nice the service had been on the way. Once there, he went straight upstairs to finish packing those few items one always left to the last minute. Lucy leaned against the doorway to his bedroom, watching as he shoved belongings into the regulation duffel that had been issued. He looked so much like Raymond in that uniform. Just like her long dead brother, he was adding a few books to one corner of the bag. She thought it unlikely there would be many other men in barracks who liked to read the way her son did. It reminded her again of her own service as a VAD. Other nurses had played cards or knitted socks for brothers or fiancés; she had re-read Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte. She had passed on her love of reading to Laurie. Without him asking, she went to the bathroom to get his shaving kit, toothbrush, and toothpaste, bringing them to him silently. He smiled his thanks equally silently, before bending back to the task of packing socks and slippers. 

Once again Lucy turned away, this time to her own room, where she opened the drawer to her bedside table. A brown calf’s leather case rested within. She took it out and sank onto the bed, holding it for a few minutes, before opening the buckle fastening. The case held a man’s brush, comb, nail clippers and scissors set, each piece in its own slot, neatly held in place by leather straps. The set had been her brother Raymond’s, sent back with the rest of his personal effects, after he died at Gallipoli. She stroked the back of the brush lightly, only looking up when Laurie spoke. Now he was the one leaning against the bedroom door. 

“I’ll be going now, Mum,” he said. His gaze looked worried – for _her_ , she realised. There was something wrong about a son going off to war worrying about his mother who was staying home; it was supposed to be the other way round.

“You mustn’t worry about me,” he reassured. “I’ve weeks of training ahead of me, before ever I’m sent overseas. And they do say the Germans are likely to sue for peace before any troops are ever deployed.” Having debated recent events with friends at university that spring, he didn’t really believe that, but he knew his mother had no interest in politics and wouldn’t know any different. 

“That was what they said the last time,” Lucy said. “It’s what they _always_ say.” She surprised Laurie with this cynicism, before she handed him the leather case, now refastened. “You’ll need a brush and comb.” 

Laurie looked surprised; he knew well the significance of the case. “I’ll take good care of it,” he promised, and tucked it into an outer pocket of his duffel, before he turned and led the way downstairs. 

At the front door, he turned. “Don’t come with me.”

“If you’d rather not,” Lucy agreed, and she reached her arms up to his shoulders to give him a hug. “Goodbye, my darling.” She gave him a big smile and a wave, watching from the doorway as he swung his duffle up onto his back, secured the straps around his shoulders, and, after a last stroke to Gyp’s ears, set off down the garden path, through the low gate, and on along the village high street toward the edge of the houses where he would catch the local train. As he turned a crook in the road, he passed out of sight, and she closed the front door. 

A cup of tea, that’s what she needed, Lucy thought and turned toward the kitchen, where she filled the kettle, and put it on the hob, before sitting down to wait for the water to boil. She could stop smiling now. God, her face _ached_ from the strain of smiling, and the muscles of her neck ached from holding herself proud and saying the right thing, when she wanted nothing more than to scream her fear and anger. She _did not want_ Laurie to go to war. Had she had any say he would not. But she had no say – none at all. He was a man now, and though always a loving son, he was beyond a mother’s control. Somehow, she knew he would not return to live under her roof again; she was truly on her own now.


End file.
